


Paradigm

by exbex



Series: Jim/John and the aftermath [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	Paradigm

This is truly the most tedious thing about relationships, Sherlock decides. There is no logic to sharing a bed with Victor when the two of them don’t want to be near one another at the moment, no logic to be sleeping back-to-back, not touching, when the entire point of sharing a bed is to touch, to allow limbs to entangle, noses to bury in the other’s hair. It is the twenty-first century, and central heating is a reality, and there is a ninety-seven percent chance that John is not sleeping upstairs, because he has exams this week, so there is no logic to sharing a bed with Victor when the two of them don’t want to be near one another at the moment.

There is no logic to the way Victor said “I love you,” before they illogically went to bed together after a spectacular row. It’s sentiment, maybe, probably. John would know. Sherlock listens for Victor’s even breathing, then slides out of bed.

He finds John in the kitchen, books and lab equipment spread out around him. Eighteen months ago John (Sherlock insists abruptly, John insists that he’d told Sherlock about it well before his departure, Victor takes John’s side because the two of them get along beautifully, which is good except for when they are both insufferable) had departed for Cambodia on a stint with Medecins sans Frontieres. John had returned six months ago and decided to return to school to study pathology, which now seems to be his one abiding interest. He accompanies Sherlock on cases only when his skills as a doctor are needed (“really Sherlock, I’m getting too old for the legwork”). Victor replaced John with the “legwork” and also took the place of the one in the flat who scolds both Sherlock and John for forgetting to eat and sleep, for storing body parts in the fridge, a role which belies his delightfully wicked eyes and smile. When John isn’t working or attending classes, he’s puttering about the flat in pajamas studying or experimenting, and now the only thing that Sherlock and John have the occasional row about is the sharing of lab equipment and specimens. Sherlock is distinctly aware that some kind of paradigm shift has occurred, and he has a frustrating lack of words, a frustrating lack of understanding, over exactly how he feels about that.

Still, John is his friend and his most reliable conduit to understanding human behavior; even if Victor is now Sherlock’s partner and John has traded his caretaker tendencies for a career change, a new obsession. Even now, though John looks a little irritated at being interrupted, he looks up from his materials to make eye contact with Sherlock. “You and Victor have a row, did you?”

Sherlock blinks, then narrows his eyes. “How did you know? You were at work.”

“You’re moving as if your ribs are bruised. You just finished a case. You were gone for four days so I should have heard you and Victor shagging loudly earlier, but I didn’t. Which means that you ran off without him, without telling him, again, and you got yourself hurt. Therefore, a row. Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.”

Sherlock sits down in the nearest chair and resists the urge to lay his head on his arms. “This is tedious.” He glares at John. “Stop enjoying this.”

John’s smile almost reaches his eyes. Almost is the closest they have come in nearly three years. “Yes, your life is truly difficult. You have a partner who doesn’t want you being completely reckless. Obviously, he’ll have to go. Possibly we’d both starve to death and work ourselves to death. Which is another thing; he doesn’t mind that your flatmate still lives here.”

Sherlock is acutely aware that his facial expressions can give away his thoughts, so he carefully schools his expression to remain neutral. In his mind palace there is a flask, filled with declarative statements, and questions. I’m in love with Victor, but if he minded that you lived here, I would put him out; I would give him up before I gave up my friend. Did you leave for a year because you couldn’t stand me? Do you blame me? Do you wish we had never met? Do you stay here out of pity for me? If you wanted me to, and if I were able, I would manipulate time and space to change things, even if it meant that you and I had never met, even if it meant that I would be dead by now.

They remain unspoken, carefully corked in his mind palace.

“It’s difficult; caring about someone else’s needs.”

John gives him a smirk at this. On someone else, it might be derisive and condescending, an admonishment of Sherlock’s emotional immaturity. On John it looks like understanding. “Don’t worry Sherlock; he’s absolutely stupidly in love with you as well. You’ll work it out.”

John goes back to studying, and Sherlock decides to retire to the couch to think. But when he stands, it occurs to him that he’d rather be somewhere else. “Get some sleep,” he says to John, and it sounds strange to him; caretaking is not his area, after all. John gives Sherlock a non-commital hum in response, but he does glance up for a moment before returning to his studying.

Sherlock slides back into bed as noiselessly as possible, but Victor turns, wakened from a fitful sleep. Even in the dark, Sherlock can decipher that Victor is tired, but aware. “I am sorry,” he says. It’s rare, to apologize from an actual sense of contrition, instead of obligation, and Sherlock always feels that the words are stilted when he says them.

Victor sighs and reaches for him. “I don’t want to change you,” he says. “I just…” and Sherlock is oddly heartened that Victor, who always seems so perfect and in control, has trouble finding the words.

“I know,” Sherlock replies, and moves closer, entangling himself with Victor, though mindful of his own slightly bruised ribs, which suddenly feel like the result of a foolish choice. Sherlock mentally curses the choice and then curses sentiment. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, years. I missed you, after university. I wanted you back, and I could have found you but I didn’t fancy the idea of wanting someone so much.” The rush of words should feel like a terrifying admission, but Sherlock is aware that it’s very unlikely that it’s been a secret kept from Victor.

“I feel the same,” Victor replies simply. “But give me a few hours to get some sleep before a make-up shag.”

“Ribs,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Make-up hand jobs then,” Victor replies wryly.

Sherlock listens for the even breathing that signifies that Victor is sleeping. He thinks about the carefully corked flask, and wonders if lovers are people one can share such questions and thoughts with, wonders if Victor would be willing to listen, wonders if Victor already knows. He decides he’ll think on it later.


End file.
